legacy
by Nylex
Summary: Snape left behind some unfinished business.


_Legacy_

Snape left behind some unfinished business.

* * *

The door closes behind him with a soft thud.

"Where. Have you. Been."

The bottom to Harry's stomach drops out.

Ginny is awake, sitting at the kitchen table. The lamp is on and she has dark circles underneath her eyes, her delicate pointed features made harsh by shadow. There's a mug of cold tea, untouched, sitting next to her, and her housecoat is tied loosely around her gently curved stomach, above her pregnant belly; her hair is pinned aggressively upwards, a few gingery strands framing her face. Ginny's soft brown eyes are sharp, hurt, betrayed. But dry. Her gaze is steady.

Harry sits down at the kitchen table. "Out."

There's a long moment of silence, and Ginny takes a breath. "Out," she repeats.

"Yeah," he says dully.

"Out every month, on the second Monday, like clockwork. You leave at eight o'clock and you don't come back until after I've fallen asleep. It's two o'clock in the morning, Harry, and I'm not moving anywhere until I get some answers."

Her voice is cold and controlled. When Ginny was angry, when they had rows, she screamed and threw things, flung hexes and swore like a sailor. But this is different—this was ice. Glacial.

Harry runs his hands through his hair, and then takes his glasses off. They clattered onto the table and he rubs his eyes fiercely until he saw spots. "It's a long story," he says finally, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.

"We have all night."

* * *

"All hail Harry Potter, Wizarding Hero!"

Balloons were released and firecrackers went off, whistling and exploding through the sky. A crowd of wizards and witches, at least a hundred strong, all leapt to their feet and their applause seemed to shake the skies. Harry stood on stage, fighting to smile, while the Minister gripped his arm in a vicelike grip. Photographers snapped photos and spectators shoved past them to get closer to their hero, their savior.

Harry looked behind him at the small grave with a plain headstone. The plot overlooked the lake at Hogwarts, and the fresh stripe of overturned earth made him sick. It was all the funeral arrangements Snape had made—a plain unmarked headstone, sitting in a deserted part of the school grounds, and there was wild celebration all around him. Had Snape envisioned this as his future? He knew he would die in the line of battle. Harry had seen it in his eyes.

He had died a spy's death. Delivered his final message, kept his cover intact, and after his death he was scarcely mourned. Oh, the Order of Phoenix had mourned the loss of their members collectively, but people didn't linger on the death of Severus Snape. There had been too much doubt towards his allegiance.

The bravest man he ever knew.

The Boy Who Lived turned back towards the crowd and forced himself to smile and wave. Aurors parted the way for him, clearing a path between people so he could get offstage without being mobbed by journalists and fans.

There was a woman carrying a child near the front of the mob. This was not unusual—most mothers wanted Harry to meet their children, wish them luck, or cast a protective charm on them. But unlike other mothers this one was simply standing there, holding her child, who looked almost too big to be carried, really.

If the child hadn't turned his head at exactly the right moment, Harry would have gone right on walking.

He wouldn't have remembered the woman's face.

And nothing would have happened.

But the child turned his head and Harry saw a profile much too familiar, with features much too sharp for a small boy. An aquiline nose, a heavy brow, with rosy, rounded cheeks, coming together in a bizarre juxtaposition of old and new. Harry was seized with a bizarre, wildly euphoric feeling—Snape!—before he realized what he was thinking was idiotic.

The woman wasn't cheering or smiling or anything. Plain, simple features. Ordinary brown hair, brown eyes. Just holding her child, looking at Harry as though she wanted to memorize his features.

"Wait," Harry said, his voice lost amid the wild screams of the crowd. "Wait!"

The Aurors hurried him along. "Keep moving, sir, let's go."

When he turned around again, the woman was gone.

* * *

A few hours later, Harry was striding through the small town of Cokeworth, leaving the mobs and media behind him. This was something he had been meaning to do. Snape deserved a better send-off, something better than a plain granite tombstone and a few pretty ripples from a far-off lake.

The streets were narrow and cramped, straight but dirty; streetlamps cast dingy yellow circles onto the sidewalks, at least the ones that were lit. Overflowing rubbish bins stood on corners, some of them tipped over, others piled sky high with bottles. A skinny black cat pawed at one mangy ear and eyed Harry cynically as he hurried down the road. The air was stagnant and carried a whiff of dirty sewage, most likely from a polluted river. Beneath the grime, Harry could see enormous potential—the houses were strongly-built and beautiful beneath the muck, but it would take weeks of people with mops and brooms before the neighborhood was in any presentable state.

At the very end of the street, in a dead end, was an old house that tilted very slightly to the left. Harry looked up at the street sign.

Spinner's End.

He climbed the rickety wooden stairs carefully, and opened the door. Whatever wards Snape had put on the place must have died with him, because he could grasp the doorknob with no trouble. It was pitch black inside, and he pulled out his wand. "Lumos."

The faint blue glow from his wand lit up the entryway, and he looked around. The house was full of heavy old furniture, antique and ornate; bookshelves were built into the walls and every single one was filled. Thin rugs covered worn wooden floors which creaked underfoot, and Harry caught sight of a comfortable-looking leather armchair next to the fireplace. A book had been left out, sitting on a small corner table, with the title printed in a language he couldn't read.

He could picture Snape sitting her very easily, with his black robes buttoned to the neck, severe features illuminated by the flickering fire, perusing a book at his leisure. Perhaps even with his feet on a footstool. Harry sat in the armchair and propped his elbows on his knees, taking the package he had brought with him out of his pocket.

"Uhm," Harry cleared his throat, "I know…I know you can't hear me, Professor. But I just wanted to stop by. Say hello. Your…er, your…grave—it's a little plain. So I thought I'd stop by here, and, you know, pay my last respects."

Harry thumbed through the moving pictures of his parents. There was a picture in the very back that he liked best, of his mother sitting on a swing set, smiling sunnily at the camera. Her hair was a blaze of reds and golds, the sunlight hitting every freckle, and she had never looked more beautiful. She smiled and waved at the camera, kicking her feet a little as she pushed herself back and forth. One could get lost in the illusion of Wizarding photos.

"I'm leaving…I'm leaving this here," Harry said, his voice getting a little thick. "It's my way of saying…thank you. For everything. And I'm sorry…God, I'm so sorry for being such a prat back in Hogwarts. I didn't…I didn't know. I wish we could have talked, about my mum, about my...well, we sort of talked about my dad, I know how you feel about him. But still. We might have been friends, even though I look like…James. I'm sorry about that."

He put the photograph on the corner table.

"I just wanted to say…that I think you're brave. You're so selfless, you worked so hard in the war, and you ought to have someone recognizing that. So…so thanks, Professor."

His eyes were burning and his throat felt tight.

A long moment of silence passed.

Bang!

He nearly jumped out of his skin—the door had flown open and there was someone standing in the doorway, pointing something at him.

"What are you doing in my house?"

"I'm sorry!" Harry shouted, panicked, "I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was living here!"

The light in his eyes lowered, and he saw a woman standing there, holding two paper sacks of groceries. She was pointing an umbrella at him with a tiny penlight on the end, and after a moment she lowered it to the floor, shutting it off. Harry was breathing hard, and he scanned her face.

It was the woman from the funeral.

She set the groceries on the floor slowly, and backed towards the wall. "Get out," she spat, "Now!"

Harry lowered his hands. "Who are you?"

"It's none of your business!" the woman snapped, "now get out!"

"Mummy," a small voice came from outside, "can I come in?"

She dropped her gaze. "Yes, come in, darling."

It was the little boy with the hooked nose—he had long, curly black hair and a sweet, sleepy expression. Looking straight at him, his features didn't seem nearly as sharp, and he looked about three or four years old. She scooped him up and balanced him on her hip, and the little boy promptly buried his face in her neck.

"Get out, Mr. Potter," she said quietly.

"How do you know who I am?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing.

She eyed him warily. "Are you trying to be funny? Because everyone knows who you are. The Prophet's been banging it into our skulls every other day, how you saved the world." Her voice was laced with bitterness.

"Are you…?" Harry took a step forward, not even knowing how to ask the questions in his mind. "Is that…?"

The woman tilted her head up and Harry saw a flash of deep-seated shame, mingled with impatience. "I'm Beatrice. Beatrice Snape. You're sitting in my house, could you leave, please?"

"Hang on," Harry muttered, "Snape was married?"

"Barely."

He sat down heavily on the couch.

She huffed a breath between her teeth. "Tib, go to bed, okay, darling? Pick out your pyjamas."

The little boy hurried down the hall, grinning widely at the liberty of picking out his own nightclothes. Beatrice stooped and picked up the groceries, brushing past Harry into the kitchen. "If you're not going to leave, help me unpack these," she said flatly. "I've got milk that'll spoil any minute."

* * *

They sat at the crooked kitchen table, holding mugs of steaming tea. The teakettle was badly dented. Harry couldn't stop roving over her face, taking in every detail—she was older, at least in her thirties, with dirty-blonde hair that looked almost brown. She had hidden it underneath a wide brimmed hat at the funeral, but now she just had a pencil stuck through a knot at the nape of her neck. She had large, intelligent brown eyes and refined features, with dark eyebrows and small lips. She was pretty. But in a background sort of way, the sort of pretty girl who would be bagging groceries or walking dogs.

"How long have you been married?" Harry asked finally. There was a pewter wedding ring on her finger that she kept playing with, twirling it around her finger.

"We got married twelve years ago, but only started living together these past few years," Beatrice said. "After…after Tiberius. He wanted to be there for his son. His intention was good, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that he was never home. He was at Hogwarts most of the year and he didn't have much to come home to on holidays." Beatrice took a sip of her tea and looked away. "But he did try. That's the important thing."

Harry ran his hands through his hand, shaking his head. "I don't…I don't understand this at all. I mean…it's not just the married thing, but a baby?"

She smiled wryly. "You're not the first one to be surprised. Albus wasn't too thrilled when he found out about me and Tiberius either, but he got over himself. I think it kept Severus grounded, at least a little bit."

"Are you…I don't, I mean, I don't want to sound rude, but are you a witch?" he asked.

"A Squib. Thank you for your tact. That's one of the many reasons I didn't get involved during the war; not only would we have hurt Severus's job but I couldn't have done much, anyway. It was too dangerous, too risky. I wasn't about to let Tib get in harm's way." Beatrice added a bit more sugar to her tea and sat back in her chair.

"I don't know. I don't know what else…what else to think," Harry said finally. "Why did you even get married?"

She looked away. "That's a very long story. Let's just say we were both very young, I was in a lot of danger, and he was trying to find himself. He thought he was doing the right thing. We stayed in contact because we had to, and…one thing led to another. We didn't plan for any of this to happen—I think he's happier away from both of us, honestly. We were quite a burden."

"Don't say that," Harry said thickly.

Her eyebrows rose. "What? We were. The extra precautions he had to take, not only to keep us safe, but keep us hidden…I don't know what we'll do. Honestly, I don't. I own the house but I don't have a job, there's nothing for me really to do, not with a small child. Severus doesn't have to play the spy or pretend to be a doting father when he's dead. I'm sure he's ecstatic."

"He was a good man," he said mechanically.

"Who said he wasn't? Severus was a good man, and he tried to be a good father. He was a terrible husband and companion but I can't blame him for that. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Potter, I need to tuck my son into bed. You can show yourself out the same way you showed yourself in."

* * *

Harry lay awake that night, thinking of a rosy-cheeked little boy black eyes and a hooked nose. A struggling single mother, cooped up in a dark, shuttered house with nothing but spooky books to keep her company. And on holidays, a brooding, enigmatic husband, who was in love with a woman long dead, would come home and they would pretend to be a family for a few weeks.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of a thick serpent coiling around a baby's crib.

* * *

The next time he saw her, she was furious.

"I didn't ask for your charity," she hissed, cornering him and shoving the wicker basket hard into his chest.

He had stopped by and dropped off groceries on the doorstep, along with several other items; a truck for Tiberius, a book for Beatrice, and a new teakettle. He had very nearly left a small bag of Galleons and Muggle money along with everything else, but didn't want to seem imposing. And then he had gone off to another fundraiser, trying to get the image of Tiberius out of his head. Snape's son. Snape's wife and child.

But she had found him, and while he had been shaking hands with the American President of Magic, he had looked up and seen Beatrice glaring murderously at him.

"It's not charity!" Harry protested.

"We're not some poor, impoverished family you can throw money at, Mr. Potter! The entire Wizarding world may be in your debt but I am not. Take your filthy groceries and books and throw them in the rubbish!" she hissed, and stormed off.

* * *

He knocked on the door to Spinner's End and was rewarded with a sliver of Beatrice's face peering through the crack in the door. A bronze chain was strung across the opening. Inside, he could hear Tiberius crying—big, gasping, open-mouthed sobs of a child deeply wronged.

"Please," he began.

The door slammed in his face.

Numbly, he listened to Tiberius's tantrum. He didn't know how long he stood out there on the front stoop, but after a while Tiberius began to calm down, and he could hear her singing softly, the lyrics indistinguishable from outside. Harry pictured them sitting in Severus's armchair, Tiberius curling up in his mother's lap while she stroked his hair.

The door opened quietly.

"If you wake the baby, I'll murder you," she whispered. "What do you want to say?"

"I want to help you. I want to get you a job, or a better place to live," Harry said quietly. "A job at the Ministry, even. You might not know, but…I owe Professor Snape a lot. I owe him my life."

"I know exactly what you owe him," she snarled, "I know exactly about Severus and Lily and the whole story. And if Severus meant that much to you, you might have expressed those sentiments when he was alive."

"I didn't know!" Harry said explosively. She shot him a warning look, and glanced behind her to see if Tiberius had woken. All was silent. "I didn't know," he said again, this time in a whisper. "I want to make things right. Please."

She looked up at him, her expression tired, bitter, and burnt out. "You can't make anything right," Beatrice said finally. "Just forget about us, Mr. Potter. Please. Do everyone a favor, and pretend like we never existed."

He left another basket of groceries, this time including children's primers for Tiberius and a small container filled with toys. This time, he included a note.

_B + T –_

_I know you don't want to accept this but I want to give it to you anyway. Until I can find you a job in the Ministry please don't throw this out, the rubbish collectors won't be happy if they find metal racecars in the bin._

_Best wishes,_  
_H_

He watched her stoop from a distance this time, keeping to himself. She picked up the basket, read the note, and looked around. After a long moment, she stepped inside and the heavy door closed behind her.

* * *

The next time he stopped by their house, she was waiting for him.

"He's manifesting," she said by way of greeting. "Tiberius is, I mean."

"What? You mean, he's a wizard?"

"Yeah. And I don't…" she took a shaky breath and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "I don't have anything to pay for his way to school. Books and robes…I can't pay for any of it."

"I'll—"

"Don't you even offer, Mr. Potter. Don't." She leveled her glare at him, and Harry shut his mouth. "But…if you know of a job. I'm not…I mean, I've never been to school or Uni or anything, I don't know how to do much…"

"I can find you a job," Harry said instantly. "I'll find one. In the Ministry or something, it won't be hard."

She nodded, and then swallowed as though the words were sticking in her throat. "Thank you, Mr. Potter."

He tried for a smile. "Call me Harry."

"All right then. Harry. Thank you."

She still missed him.

Harry noticed, over time, that she never sat in Snape's armchair, never read any of his books. It could have been that she didn't know how to read them, or she didn't like the chair; but Harry saw her stroke a green-and-silver Slytherin blanket with such obvious love and affection, it had to be something else. Beatrice would always play with Tib's hair, pulling it back, or kiss his strong nose and cuddle his fat baby cheek. She looked for pieces of Severus everywhere.

One day, while babysitting Tiberius, Harry pulled a book at random out from the shelf. It was a skinny black tome, much less intimidating than the thick, hide-bound books that dominated the shelves. Magikal Properties of Potionmaking, said the gold-embossed cover. The book looked ridiculously old, even compared to the ancient volumes that made up the rest of Snape's collection.

Inside the cover was a small notecard.

_Happy Birthday, Severus. With all my love, Bea_

* * *

"You said you were both young," Harry asked her, sitting down at the kitchen table. Beatrice eyed him as she folded baby blankets, preparing them for storage. "How young, exactly?"

Beatrice stacked the blankets in a clear plastic tub. "Young," she said acidly, stressing the word. "Before he left Hogwarts. I got mixed up with the wrong crowd, the type he hung around with, and...it was a confusing time. It was a protection thing," she added, waving her hand vaguely. "Nothing romantic about it. I hope you don't have any sort of delusions, Harry, because he might've been married, but…"

She looked out the window, her voice quiet and distant. "We might've been married, but he still loved your mother. Very much."

The woman squeezed Hary's shoulder. "Someday I'll tell you the whole story."

* * *

"So," Ginny says haltingly, "you have another family."

"It's not like that, Gin," Harry began, but Ginny stood up.

"You mean to tell me, that you've been supporting Snape's family for all this time? Thirteen years? Why? Why didn't you tell me, Harry, instead of sneaking off in the middle of the night to have a rendezvous with Snape's widow?"

"It's not like that, Ginny!" Harry thunders. "Look, this woman's been dealt a shit hand, and she's trying to raise a little boy all by herself. She's got no family, no friends, nothing. I got her a job, a long time ago, and yeah, I stop by once a month to make sure Tib's all right."

"Tib," Ginny spat.

"She's twenty years older than I am, Ginny, and I don't…I don't know what you want me to say! Yeah, I should've told you, but this started long before we got married and I didn't think it concerned you."

She jabs a finger in his face. "I am your wife, Harry! Everything you do concerns me, especially when it comes to something like this! You're supporting another family behind my back, you've essentially married this woman!"

"No! No, I have not, Gin, I love you, I love James and Albus and I love our daughter that we're going to have in a few months. It's not an affair, it's not me having this other family or this other life, it's just me being a friend to a woman for a very long time. Yeah, I loan her money sometimes, when things are tight, and yeah, I make sure Tiberius is taken care of. But I'm doing what Snape would have done for Lily. Do you get it? He would have done this for me. For my mum. She must've said a thousand times that she wants to meet you and James, she's dying to see you two—"

"Oh, really, she's dying to see the other wife?" Ginny sneers, her eyes full of tears and hurt seeping through every syllable.

"It's not like that, Gin, because I can never be Snape! Do you understand? She loved him, I think she still does, and they were married for twelve years. She keeps his things just the way they were when he died, she misses him. And I can never be that, I'm her friend. Nothing more, Ginny."

She storms out of the kitchen, tears streaming down her face. "I'm not going to sit here and be lied to, Harry James Potter!"

Down the hallway, a door opens, and a tousled, sleepy head pokes out. "Whassa matter, Mum?"

Ginny rushes past him and slams her bedroom door closed. Harry strokes his son's head. "Nothing's the matter, James, go back to bed."

"Are you and Mum having a row?" he asks sleepily.

"Yeah, a bit. Go to sleep. Things will be better in the morning."

* * *

September dawns in a glorious blaze of color, autumn foliage exploding in every which way. Platform 9 ¾ is packed full of families saying good bye, teary mothers and proud fathers, first years and upperclassmen all mingling together. Noise and chatter fills the air, along with the meows of cats, the squeak of rats, and the grumpy hoots of owls being woken up far too early. Friendships are already forming, along with romances and rivalries.

Ginny kisses James soundly on the cheek. "Be sure to write!" she says laughingly.

"You will write, won't you?" James says uncertainly, lowering his voice so Albus won't hear. "Don't…don't let Al hog my room. And don't forget about the rabbits! They've got to be fed every morning."

"We won't forget about them," Harry says, fondly messing his son's hair. He looks up, and sees two very familiar figures through the clouds of steam. He clears his throat. "Ginny, James, I want you to meet someone."

A woman with soft brown hair is telling something animatedly to her tall, skinny son. The boy has broad shoulders and a trim waist, with features too strong and sharp to be handsome, but his eyes crinkle sweetly at the corners when he smiles, which is easily and often. His hair is black, long, and tied back in a loose ponytail. The resemblance to his father is not readily apparent, because there's enough of his mother mingled in his genetics, giving him a softness of expression and a stronger build than his father.

"James," Harry says loudly, "I want you to meet Tiberius. He's the Gryffindor Prefect, so he'll be showing you around the school."

Ginny is staring, flabbergast, at both Beatrice and Tiberius.

"Nice to meet you," Tiberius says brightly, shaking James's hand.

"He's on the Quidditch team," Harry continues, "so maybe next year, when you get your broomstick, you might try out."

"Wow!" James says, grinning widely.

"And Ginny," Harry says, stepping aside, "This is Beatrice Hartwood."

The two women looked each other squarely in the eyes.

"It's nice to meet you," they both said simultaneously.

* * *

_this was kind of a sampler. If anyone's interested, I might write the full story of snape and beatrice, but I'm not quite sure yet._

_also I have this great image in my head about Tib finding severus's portrait...-**nylex**_


End file.
